


Mumma

by SociopathicArchangel



Series: 25 Lives [8]
Category: Don't Hug Me I'm Scared (Short Film)
Genre: Gen, I Made Myself Cry, cameo: Doris, cameo: Humour, i'll be honest i cry more over shrignold's situation, intermission fic#2, last intermission fic then Exspes which means update will take a while, timestamp: post A Mother's Love pre-25 Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:42:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3867478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SociopathicArchangel/pseuds/SociopathicArchangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shrignold wonders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mumma

 

_What is it, child?_

I think there’s something wrong with me.

 

_Can you tell me about it?_

I feel confused most of the time. A little heavy on the chest. Sometimes it feels like _everything_ is heavy and I just want to lie down and sleep and hope that everything’s going to pass.

It’s like I’m forgetting something, mumma.

But I don’t know what it is, it’s just that I get the feeling that I’m missing something really huge and I have to find it.

My chest hurts whenever I think about it, so I try not to, but it’s been bugging me for _years._

Do you know what it is?

 

_I know a lot of things, pash, but the heart is a tricky thing. It’s hardly loyal to its own owner, how can it be loyal to the brain?_

Hearts are stupid.

 

_Ha. I know, pash. You told me that a long time ago too. I’m glad to see your thoughts haven’t changed._

How do I make it stop?

 

_Your heart?_

No, I’d die. The pain.

 

_I think that would be something you’d have to find out by yourself._

Do you think I can find it out?

 

_You can try._

_…_

_What’s the matter, pash? Why do you look so weary?_

Ah-mah.

I think I’m broken.

*

The habit is annoying but he can’t seem to stop himself before he does it. Every time he gets confused over something or feels like cracking a joke, he looks over his shoulder to say something but stops short when he realizes that, just as always, there’s no one there.

But it feels like there _has_ to be.

And then he feels a little sick, a little dizzy and he has to force himself to steady his breathing.

It happens _all_ the time. He tells himself not to do that, but when he finds the Grand Canyon fascinating, he starts, “It looks so – ” turns to the side and then sees no one there; he berates himself for doing it again. When he stumbles upon an open field that looks strangely familiar although he’s sure he hasn’t been there before, he lies on his back and stares up at the clear sky, admiring the stars and is about to make a comment as he glances beside him but once again, he’s alone.

It’s an ingrained habit, he realizes with much frustration. Now, if only there was a way to get rid of it.

He tries flicking his own ear every time he unconsciously moves to address the person who isn’t there and only ends up with red, swollen ears for a week. He tries to get Humour to stop him, and the Concept agrees, but stops after a few days to longue in the background with a plate of donuts ready to watch Shrignold yell at himself when he does the thing again.

Eventually, he settles for having an imaginary friend.

The funny thing is that it works. He stops blurting things out loud when he ‘communicates’ with his friend in his head and although it weirds him out at first when they ‘reply’, he gets used to it. In fact, it’s kind of nice having someone to talk to.

He doesn’t know why he’s made it call him ‘ _pash_ ’ like it’s older than him (he refuses to accept it decided to call him that, it’s a figment of his subconscious after all), but he doesn’t mind. Sometimes he addresses it as his best friend, sometimes his sister and sometimes, only sometimes, as his mom.

Humour asks him how he’s managed to get rid of his hilarious tendency to talk to air and he says that he’s worked something out. His friend needles him over it and he eventually gives in and tells them.

Shrignold is too caught up in embarrassment to notice the flicker of panic on Humour’s face.

*

He knows all about the little horror story they tell Concepts. The number of Successors in the realm can only be counted by one hand, so it’s not widely told to children like human legends, but the older Concepts do tell it to each other. Some of them claim to have witnessed the event; others just retell it as a joke.

Like any self-respecting Concept, he doesn’t believe it. He feels sorry for the mother and child in the story, but if they were going to spin a tale, they had to at least make it believable.

Soul magic is rumored to be a very ancient art, so not anyone can easily do it and as old as they are, the Concepts aren’t old enough to know about that. They didn’t watch as creation was called into being, and they certainly did not watch as the first soul was knitted into existence. They stemmed from human thoughts; they themselves did not know how their own souls worked.

There were also rumors about humans getting curious enough to try and tap into their own souls and record their observations before they went mad and the Council put them out and stored their records in the library of the Grand Council Hall, but they were just that – rumors. Even if it was real, the area where the records were kept was guarded ten ways to Sunday.

That is also the same reason why Shrignold doesn’t believe Humour when they tell him they were around when the events of the mother and child story occurred. Then guffawed when they told him he knew everyone in the story personally.

“Everybody knows who Lust is, Humour,” Shrignold says.

Humour rolls their eyes, “Of course everyone knows who Lust is, but I am telling you the truth when I say that I know who the mom, the kid, the kid’s killer and the reaper is.”

Shrignold crosses his arms and shakes his head with a little smile. “Alright then, I’ll _humor_ you,” he says. Humour’s lips twitch up as they fight the urge to laugh. “Who’s the killer?”

“There were actually three of them, but the one who _killed_ the kid was Pride.”

“You’re joking,” Shrignold scoffs, “I haven’t seen Pride do anything else other than bury himself in books, I don’t think he’d hit a person.”

“Yeah, well, don’t judge a book by its plastic cover.”

“The mom?”

Humour straightens, “She’s an old lady who goes by Doris now.”

Shrignold raises an eyebrow, “Okaaaay, the reaper?”

“My best friend.”

“Hah. Now I know you’re bluffing. You’re friends with a reaper?”

“Azrael is _not_ a reaper. And why do you think I sneak out all the time and why there are about four wormholes the Council’s been pissed off about for several years?”

“And the kid?”

Humour opens their mouth, chokes on their own saliva, clear their throat and Shrignold can swear their voice is shaking. Which is saying something since Humour is all chipper yelling and sugar binges.

They raise a finger to point at him, “You.”

Shrignold throws his head back and laughs.

“ _Hilarious._ This has to be the most insane but entertaining joke you’ve told me. I mean – Humour, I’m pretty sure I’d remember if I had a mom? And if I’m the kid, you’re implying Pride killed me. He’s been as unhostile as you can get towards me,” he wipes the tears at the corners of his eyes, “I might believe you on the reaper bit, because I can never tell which of the shady friends you talk about are real or not.”

Shrignold finishes his bout of giggles and straightens, chewing the inside of his cheek to stop another laughing fit.

Humour isn’t laughing.

Their eyes shine with pity and suddenly, Shrignold wants to lie down.

“I’m sorry, kid.”

*

He tries not to think about it. He travels around, watches history be made or maybe observe as the earth gives out another one of its calamities that can be fascinating and horrifying at the same time just to keep himself distracted.

Instead, it’s the thought of being a Successor that distracts him.

If he thinks about it, the parts do fit. He doesn’t know of any Doris, but Humour does sneak off a lot and whenever they come back, it’s from one of the wormholes the Council still hasn’t found a way to fix and Humour carries an air of literal ozone and death around them. Not to mention Humour was able to give a name for the reaper, and not an easy one that they could just make up. Shrignold searches for anything he can find on this ‘Azrael’ and is horrified to find that they do exist.

Okay, so maybe Humour had done their research on that, nothing to worry about. Definitely nothing to worry about.

Pride reads a lot. Like, a lot. The only thing Shrignold has seen Pride do is read in the library, head home with a stack of books, or walk around dizzy, rubbing his bag-ridden eyes while trying not to drop his glasses. Shrignold never glances at Pride’s books.

There were rumors of soul magic books in the library. Pride had connections in the Council.

Then there was Shrignold’s habit of trying to talk to someone who should have been with him at all times, his subconscious using ‘ _pash’_ – child – to address him, his head hurting when he thinks something he’s never seen or heard before that should be familiar.

It fits and he doesn’t want it to.

When he accidentally kicks off the Trojan War when Helen attracts too much attention since he was misfiring arrows, he decides that something needs to be done and that there’s a talk to be had with Humour.

He should also probably fix his mess, but maybe it’ll be a good part of human history.

*

Centuries later, he does find a Doris, who lives in the neighborhood where those fascinating humans are. He’s sticking around for the entertainment Creativity and Time get up to, but maybe he’ll try to check her out.

*

The door opens and Shrignold’s stomach drops when he sees recognition flicker on Doris’ face. He can feel her panic rising and doesn’t miss the rapid glances from side to side like she’s expecting something to happen. Nothing happens, of course, and she strains a smile and asks him what she could do for him.

He says he’s new to the neighborhood, a little lost and would like some directions to the park since he was meeting his friends there. She gives him directions, short and clipped, and Shrignold’s stomach churns hotter.

Doris’ smile keeps twitching, her eyes are focused on the road, refusing to meet his and she shoots glances at his back. Shrignold’s folded his wings into the non-corporeal plane, but he can’t help but think she can see them.

After their conversation, he pretends to be on his way and comes back two hours later, cloaking himself from sight, as he watches Doris’ reaction to everything.

He finds her crying.

*

“So maybe you’re right.”

Humour looks up from the bomb they’re constructing to look at Shrignold. The Concept of Love sighs and flops down on one of the mattresses that’s covering the entire floor since Humour felt like it.

“I’m right about a lot of things – which one are you talking about?” they ask.

“I met Doris.”

Humour drops the soldering gun. They hiss as it clatters on the desk and nearly burns the varnish off, “You met your mom?”

“She is _not_ my mother.”

“Right.”

So maybe the voice in his head that’s existed way before he met Doris sounded exactly like her. So maybe his head hurt when he saw that she looked familiar. So maybe they looked a bit alike – teal skin, black hair, golden eyes – although her skin looked paler and her hair grayer. That did not mean he was a Successor.

“What’d you say to her?” Humour picks up the soldering gun and resumes their work.

“I just made harmless conversation.”

“How’d she react?”

“Closed off. She was crying after.”

“And you’re convinced she’s not your mother?”

Shrignold rolls over on his stomach to watch Humour squint and carefully solder a wire into the circuit board. He sighs.

“I don’t know anymore, Gabe.”

Gabriel blinks, turns off the solder and takes off their goggles before turning to him. Their shocked look slowly melts away to pity.

Shrignold huffs a mirthless laugh, “I am so fucking broken, aren’t I?”


End file.
